SKETCHES OF SAN FRANCISCO "THE HYDE OUT"
After the drive up to the city, during which time I suffered from a severe hangover while getting drunk behind the bar on a riotous Friday night, Rocco and I dropped off our overnight bags at the cheap-rate hotel near Russian Hill and set off to a new bar I'd spotted while walking the city with my non-drinking lady companion, Miranda, an educated culture romantic. The Hydeout, in Nob Hill. It was at least a mile walk in the pouring rain, but since we were he-men we disdained umbrellas, and, in our usual attire—sneakers, shorts and hooded sweat-shirts—we dodged puddles, dashed under awnings, kept close to buildings. When we entered the bar in early afternoon we were soaked.
Things were slow. The bar was old and venerable with a comfortable street-corner shabbiness. The bartender had shoulder-length dark hair, a very pale finely featured face and wore a shirt that seemed to have wings. A middle-aged boozer with bulbous red nose sporting fractured capillaries and wearing a baggy polka-dot housecoat and crushed golf cap sat in the middle of the bar reading the Chronicle, sipping a shot of whiskey and draft beer. Rocco started with his usual diet coke and house vodka. The bartender, who introduced himself as Milton, flashed an eye at darkly handsome Rocco and poured his drink so strong it looked like watered-down ice tea. I had a bottle of beer. With lime. They say citrus is healthy for a merciless hangover. Ha ha.
There was a bottle of beer at the next stool over. I'd noticed a medium-sized, wiry lad around 25 standing outside under the awning talking intensely on a cell phone when we entered. Now he returned, but did not sit down. He placed his phone on the bar, swigged from his micro brew, sized me up, then Rocco. We nodded. I was too under the weather to engage him in conversation, so Rocco, in his usual friendly manner, asked him how he was doing.
“Oh Good!” He acted surprised. “Real good, thank you. How are you?”
“Great!” Rocco responded, finishing off his drink while I nursed my first beer. Rocco insists on a quick burst of a buzz when beginning a binge and then continuing on a steady even keel that lasts until the bars close at 2 in the morning, while I pace myself. Milton quickly mixed Rocco another powerful drink and took money from our pile.
The kid with cell phone introduced himself as Brett. We all shook hands. Brett owned the hands of a white collar worker, had a high-pitched voice. He talked rapidly and couldn't stand still. Told us he lived in the neighborhood and worked in the financial district on Montgomery. Dressed preppy. Claimed business was booming! Then he began to talk about his dad, who taught economics at Stanford, was a respected scholar who'd won various awards and published numerous books. Rocco watched him talk while I stared into my beer. The bulbous nose a few stools down turned a page of his newspaper, finished his shot, nipped his beer, and pointed to his shot glass, which billowy-shirt Milton quickly refilled.
“My Dad's a wonderful man,” Brett confided, his eyes bulging with expressiveness, hands moving. “Oh, we've had our ups and downs, certainly. He's disappointed in me, because I dropped out of college, because I didn't go to STAN-ford, I went to San Jose State...he got me this job I have now and I'm doing VERY well on my own, thank you. I cannot BE like my dad. He's a GENIUS, I've got to be me. I know he loves me. I mean, I LOVE my dad, but, well, we do not get along...I get along much better with my mother. My dad, he's so demanding...he wants me to be somebody I'm not...”
He went on and on. His brothers had all gone to Stanford...He finally slowed down and took a swig of his beer, finishing it off, ordered another, had it put on his tab, and glanced at Rocco.
“You some kind of...rugby player?” he asked.
“Nah.” Rocco glanced at me.
“You look like you work construction.”
“No. I teach history and coach basketball.”
“Oh, wonderful. Where at?”
“Down in San Luis Obispo county. Pops and me, we come up here to play basketball and do some serious drinking. But we got rained out, so we're drinking.”
Brett grew excited and exclaimed that HE played basketball, too, though not very well, because he wasn't a good shooter, because he had small hands, but he was fast, and pesky, and hustled, and of course his brothers were all great athletes, and he, Brett, had excelled at track, and soccer, and he still worked out hard in the gym to stay trim...
His cell phone rang. Bulbous nose lowered his bifocals to glance at Brett as he hurriedly ran outside to talk on his phone beneath the awning. Bulbous nose finished the front section and began the entertainment section after pointing to his empty shot glass, which Milton refilled. A few minutes later Brett swept back in, placed his phone on the bar, took a swig of beer and began informing us of places to find hoop games. We told him we usually played at Moscone Park, but he did not listen and began writing down new places on bar napkins. He also wanted our cell phone numbers before we left, so he could some day play with us. Somehow, amid this spiel, he divulged to us the information that his mother tried to give him money with a free plane ticket to Paris, France, so he could experience Europe, but he would not take it, because he was too proud, and there was a real tug-of-war going on between his divorced parents as to who loved him the most. Finally his cell phone rang again and he dashed outside. I started my second beer just as Milton mixed Rocco his third devastating vodka/diet coke.
“Feelin' any better?” he asked me.
“A tiny bit.”
The rain pounded in sheets. People scurried along streets and across the intersection of California and Hyde, umbrellas bent in the wind, galoshes splashing up six inch puddles. It was supposed to rain nonstop all day and night.
Brett dashed back in. He finished writing down all the hoop courts on napkins and handed them to me, and I stuffed them in the pocket of my hoodie while Brett watched us.
“Are you guys...? Well, you know.”
“Are we like the two cowboys in Brokeback Mountain, the movie, with two gays sneaking away from their unhappy wives for a tryst?”
“Well, no, no...” Brett was flustered.
“Nah,” I said, shaking my head. “Besides really coming up here to play hoop and drink, we're momentarily escaping the responsibility of cooking for our women.”
Brett nodded. “You guys...cook for your...wives?”
“Mine's a girl friend. She can only cook one thing—chili. I only let her cook it once. She said she could cook this one thing, and wanted to please me, and made me her chili, but I could tell something was wrong by the smells coming out of the kitchen, and when I tasted it—this was ten years ago—I realized instantly there was no garlic in it.”
“Chili without garlic?” Brett was appalled, eyes a-bulge in disbelief.
“Yeh, Brett, and when I told her there was no garlic in her chili, she sniveled that I had no garlic salt, so I told her you don't use garlic salt, you use garlic cloves, and showed her the cloves, and she actually peeled off petals of garlic without slicing them with a serrated knife, and just chunked them into the pot of chili. Well, I sent her out of the kitchen for good after that. She had a good cry, but recovered.” Brett was hanging on my every word. “She's actually relieved, Brett. The situation is much worse with Rocco's wife, right, Rock?”
“Right, dead-eye.” Rocco drank. Bulbous nose again lowered his bifocals to glance over, ignoring his Chronicle. “The first twelve years of our marriage she didn't cook. Then her girl friends start telling her she'd make me happier than I already am by cooking for me. I've always told Jane she'll make me happy by being good in bed, and she is. But after these girls browbeat her she goes out and buys all this cooking equipment we don't need, and these cook books, and she spends a whole day in the kitchen. She's got pots and pans everywhere, everything bubbling over and smelling weird, and she's sweaty and flustered, you know, because she's never cooked before, she always just shoves stuff in the microwave.”
“What did she call it, Rock?” I asked, finishing my beer, motioning for Milton to give everybody a round—including bulbous nose—and myself a Skyy rocks. Milton went to work.
“It was yellowish,” Rocco said.
“YELLOW-ish?” Brett was agog. “Risotto with saffron?”
“I think she called it tamale pie. I had to eat it. This was a week ago. I still got stomach cramps from it. It was the worst thing I've ever eaten. Of course, I didn't tell Jane that. I faked it. When she went out of the room, I tried to give it to my dog, Chester, a Lab, he'll eat anything, dead garbage off the beach, anything, but he growled at me after sniffing it and went into the den and gave me a dirty look, like he was accusing me of trying to poison him.”
“These girl friends of hers oughta be crucified for putting her up to that, Rock,” I said, sipping my vodka. “The woman, much as I love her, is dangerous, serving you poisonous prison food.”
“Poor Jane,” Brett exclaimed. “What are you gonna do about this situation, Rock? You don't want to hurt her feelings.”
“I'll find a way to discourage her,” Rocco reassured him. “blame it on her girl friends, all teachers who can't cook. I'll throw out all the cook books and equipment. It'll be okay.”
“The best way to a girls heart, Brett,” I said. “Is to cook for HER, and cook good, especially a modern woman who works hard and needs a tasty, hearty, nutritious meal after the daily grind.”
“Right on,” Brett gushed, really pleased, smiling brightly, and offered his open hand for me to slap, which I did. “That's beautiful, man. You guys are way cool. Before you leave, since you're both cooks, I'll write down some really fine gourmet restaurants you can go to tonight.”
Before I could inform him we could only cook the basics, and while on our binges we only ate hoagies, burgers or burritos, Brett's cell phone rang and he sprang at it and dashed outside. He soon returned. Two stylishly dressed young ladies came in the front door, filling the bar with cloying perfume. Brett hugged them warmly, like old, fond friends. The girls ordered foo foo drinks, not looking at me or Rocco, and took them up to a sun room with a better view of the city. Brett began writing names of restaurants on napkins when his cell phone rang again. Obviously irritated, he sighed, picked it up and went outside.
Rocco and I drained our drinks and stood. Bulbous nose nodded at us in a manner indicating some sort of kinship. Milton gushed his thanks as we left him a mash of bills. Outside, the rain seemed to be smashing the city in hailing pellets. Brett momentarily ceased conversing intensely on his cell.
“Don't go,” he urged. “I've got restaurants! I need your cell numbers! We'll play ball together! Here's my card!”
We took his card and dashed into the downpour, headed toward our favorite bar in Russian Hill, but with several others to stop at on our way.
Things were slow. The bar was old and venerable with a comfortable street-corner shabbiness. The bartender had shoulder-length dark hair, a very pale finely featured face and wore a shirt that seemed to have wings. A middle-aged boozer with bulbous red nose sporting fractured capillaries and wearing a baggy polka-dot housecoat and crushed golf cap sat in the middle of the bar reading the Chronicle, sipping a shot of whiskey and draft beer. Rocco started with his usual diet coke and house vodka. The bartender, who introduced himself as Milton, flashed an eye at darkly handsome Rocco and poured his drink so strong it looked like watered-down ice tea. I had a bottle of beer. With lime. They say citrus is healthy for a merciless hangover. Ha ha.
There was a bottle of beer at the next stool over. I'd noticed a medium-sized, wiry lad around 25 standing outside under the awning talking intensely on a cell phone when we entered. Now he returned, but did not sit down. He placed his phone on the bar, swigged from his micro brew, sized me up, then Rocco. We nodded. I was too under the weather to engage him in conversation, so Rocco, in his usual friendly manner, asked him how he was doing.
“Oh Good!” He acted surprised. “Real good, thank you. How are you?”
“Great!” Rocco responded, finishing off his drink while I nursed my first beer. Rocco insists on a quick burst of a buzz when beginning a binge and then continuing on a steady even keel that lasts until the bars close at 2 in the morning, while I pace myself. Milton quickly mixed Rocco another powerful drink and took money from our pile.
The kid with cell phone introduced himself as Brett. We all shook hands. Brett owned the hands of a white collar worker, had a high-pitched voice. He talked rapidly and couldn't stand still. Told us he lived in the neighborhood and worked in the financial district on Montgomery. Dressed preppy. Claimed business was booming! Then he began to talk about his dad, who taught economics at Stanford, was a respected scholar who'd won various awards and published numerous books. Rocco watched him talk while I stared into my beer. The bulbous nose a few stools down turned a page of his newspaper, finished his shot, nipped his beer, and pointed to his shot glass, which billowy-shirt Milton quickly refilled.
“My Dad's a wonderful man,” Brett confided, his eyes bulging with expressiveness, hands moving. “Oh, we've had our ups and downs, certainly. He's disappointed in me, because I dropped out of college, because I didn't go to STAN-ford, I went to San Jose State...he got me this job I have now and I'm doing VERY well on my own, thank you. I cannot BE like my dad. He's a GENIUS, I've got to be me. I know he loves me. I mean, I LOVE my dad, but, well, we do not get along...I get along much better with my mother. My dad, he's so demanding...he wants me to be somebody I'm not...”
He went on and on. His brothers had all gone to Stanford...He finally slowed down and took a swig of his beer, finishing it off, ordered another, had it put on his tab, and glanced at Rocco.
“You some kind of...rugby player?” he asked.
“Nah.” Rocco glanced at me.
“You look like you work construction.”
“No. I teach history and coach basketball.”
“Oh, wonderful. Where at?”
“Down in San Luis Obispo county. Pops and me, we come up here to play basketball and do some serious drinking. But we got rained out, so we're drinking.”
Brett grew excited and exclaimed that HE played basketball, too, though not very well, because he wasn't a good shooter, because he had small hands, but he was fast, and pesky, and hustled, and of course his brothers were all great athletes, and he, Brett, had excelled at track, and soccer, and he still worked out hard in the gym to stay trim...
His cell phone rang. Bulbous nose lowered his bifocals to glance at Brett as he hurriedly ran outside to talk on his phone beneath the awning. Bulbous nose finished the front section and began the entertainment section after pointing to his empty shot glass, which Milton refilled. A few minutes later Brett swept back in, placed his phone on the bar, took a swig of beer and began informing us of places to find hoop games. We told him we usually played at Moscone Park, but he did not listen and began writing down new places on bar napkins. He also wanted our cell phone numbers before we left, so he could some day play with us. Somehow, amid this spiel, he divulged to us the information that his mother tried to give him money with a free plane ticket to Paris, France, so he could experience Europe, but he would not take it, because he was too proud, and there was a real tug-of-war going on between his divorced parents as to who loved him the most. Finally his cell phone rang again and he dashed outside. I started my second beer just as Milton mixed Rocco his third devastating vodka/diet coke.
“Feelin' any better?” he asked me.
“A tiny bit.”
The rain pounded in sheets. People scurried along streets and across the intersection of California and Hyde, umbrellas bent in the wind, galoshes splashing up six inch puddles. It was supposed to rain nonstop all day and night.
Brett dashed back in. He finished writing down all the hoop courts on napkins and handed them to me, and I stuffed them in the pocket of my hoodie while Brett watched us.
“Are you guys...? Well, you know.”
“Are we like the two cowboys in Brokeback Mountain, the movie, with two gays sneaking away from their unhappy wives for a tryst?”
“Well, no, no...” Brett was flustered.
“Nah,” I said, shaking my head. “Besides really coming up here to play hoop and drink, we're momentarily escaping the responsibility of cooking for our women.”
Brett nodded. “You guys...cook for your...wives?”
“Mine's a girl friend. She can only cook one thing—chili. I only let her cook it once. She said she could cook this one thing, and wanted to please me, and made me her chili, but I could tell something was wrong by the smells coming out of the kitchen, and when I tasted it—this was ten years ago—I realized instantly there was no garlic in it.”
“Chili without garlic?” Brett was appalled, eyes a-bulge in disbelief.
“Yeh, Brett, and when I told her there was no garlic in her chili, she sniveled that I had no garlic salt, so I told her you don't use garlic salt, you use garlic cloves, and showed her the cloves, and she actually peeled off petals of garlic without slicing them with a serrated knife, and just chunked them into the pot of chili. Well, I sent her out of the kitchen for good after that. She had a good cry, but recovered.” Brett was hanging on my every word. “She's actually relieved, Brett. The situation is much worse with Rocco's wife, right, Rock?”
“Right, dead-eye.” Rocco drank. Bulbous nose again lowered his bifocals to glance over, ignoring his Chronicle. “The first twelve years of our marriage she didn't cook. Then her girl friends start telling her she'd make me happier than I already am by cooking for me. I've always told Jane she'll make me happy by being good in bed, and she is. But after these girls browbeat her she goes out and buys all this cooking equipment we don't need, and these cook books, and she spends a whole day in the kitchen. She's got pots and pans everywhere, everything bubbling over and smelling weird, and she's sweaty and flustered, you know, because she's never cooked before, she always just shoves stuff in the microwave.”
“What did she call it, Rock?” I asked, finishing my beer, motioning for Milton to give everybody a round—including bulbous nose—and myself a Skyy rocks. Milton went to work.
“It was yellowish,” Rocco said.
“YELLOW-ish?” Brett was agog. “Risotto with saffron?”
“I think she called it tamale pie. I had to eat it. This was a week ago. I still got stomach cramps from it. It was the worst thing I've ever eaten. Of course, I didn't tell Jane that. I faked it. When she went out of the room, I tried to give it to my dog, Chester, a Lab, he'll eat anything, dead garbage off the beach, anything, but he growled at me after sniffing it and went into the den and gave me a dirty look, like he was accusing me of trying to poison him.”
“These girl friends of hers oughta be crucified for putting her up to that, Rock,” I said, sipping my vodka. “The woman, much as I love her, is dangerous, serving you poisonous prison food.”
“Poor Jane,” Brett exclaimed. “What are you gonna do about this situation, Rock? You don't want to hurt her feelings.”
“I'll find a way to discourage her,” Rocco reassured him. “blame it on her girl friends, all teachers who can't cook. I'll throw out all the cook books and equipment. It'll be okay.”
“The best way to a girls heart, Brett,” I said. “Is to cook for HER, and cook good, especially a modern woman who works hard and needs a tasty, hearty, nutritious meal after the daily grind.”
“Right on,” Brett gushed, really pleased, smiling brightly, and offered his open hand for me to slap, which I did. “That's beautiful, man. You guys are way cool. Before you leave, since you're both cooks, I'll write down some really fine gourmet restaurants you can go to tonight.”
Before I could inform him we could only cook the basics, and while on our binges we only ate hoagies, burgers or burritos, Brett's cell phone rang and he sprang at it and dashed outside. He soon returned. Two stylishly dressed young ladies came in the front door, filling the bar with cloying perfume. Brett hugged them warmly, like old, fond friends. The girls ordered foo foo drinks, not looking at me or Rocco, and took them up to a sun room with a better view of the city. Brett began writing names of restaurants on napkins when his cell phone rang again. Obviously irritated, he sighed, picked it up and went outside.
Rocco and I drained our drinks and stood. Bulbous nose nodded at us in a manner indicating some sort of kinship. Milton gushed his thanks as we left him a mash of bills. Outside, the rain seemed to be smashing the city in hailing pellets. Brett momentarily ceased conversing intensely on his cell.
“Don't go,” he urged. “I've got restaurants! I need your cell numbers! We'll play ball together! Here's my card!”
We took his card and dashed into the downpour, headed toward our favorite bar in Russian Hill, but with several others to stop at on our way.
